


Fifty-Fifty

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1940s, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: The Havana-MadridMarch, 1946
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27





	Fifty-Fifty

“ _Grab_ you?”

“Sure, bubbe. Be rough.”

“Jer, stop.”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“Jerry—”

“You’re not gonna hurt me.”

Dean’s eyes shifted, darted. “I don’t know.”

It was dawn, or almost. Hard to tell in the basement. The last patrons had filed out onto a bitterly cold 51st and Broadway, less than five minutes from the spot where Dean had shaken a skinny kid’s hand nearly four years before. Now, they were on the same bill. The kid had turned twenty earlier that month – now just where the fuck had _that_ time gone? – and after Alan King had been dropped from the Havana-Madrid’s spring line-up, the kid’s name had been floated as a replacement. Maybe Dean had casually mentioned he knew him. Maybe he had made a few comments about the kid’s talent. Whatever the case, he had come. He’d practically thrown himself into Dean’s arms and managed to plant a number of loud kisses on his cheeks before Dean could extricate himself.

“You miss me, bubbe?”

“Now that you’re here, I ain’t so sure.”

“Beast.”

At the end of that first night, when there had been more waiters than patrons, Dean had taken to the floor. Singing to half-asleep drunks and exhausted busboys hadn’t exactly been high on his list, but at least no one heckled or got sore over one of his jokes. In the middle of his second song, a horrific, rattling coughing fit had cut across the music, and then a screech:

“ _Who ordered steak?_ ”

Dean had looked up, slowly, carefully, allowing himself a sly, indulgent smile. Something in the kid’s eye earlier in the night, the way he’d tugged on his sleeve and waggled his eyebrows. Something had told Dean he might be making an appearance. It wasn’t the first time. He remembered Jerry yelling out and ducking out quick as a flash, heckling his new nose or maybe declaring “ _Yer a fency singer, boy!_ ” before slipping away. Maybe he’d find him later to hug him, try and kiss him, ask without asking if he did okay, if Dean was mad at him. Maybe he’d disappear, his fleeting look-in a stop on the way to his next venue. Either way, the kid’s appearances had always been brief.

Until that night.

Jerry had come right up to Dean, inserted himself into the act as though they’d planned it. He’d strained to sing in Yiddish, teased and cajoled him, and retreated into his nine-year-old – all of this and more, while Dean watched and joined in and realised how well they were going down with the audience. Who knew sleepy drunks had such good taste? But there was something else, too, Dean realised afterwards. A part of him had been aware of the patrons’ lethargic amusement, but most of him had been focused on the kid. Watching, waiting, responding, as though they were alone and blowing off steam. It gave him a strange feeling, something sparkling in his chest, that spread and spread in a not unpleasant wave of heat to every inch of him.

The kid’s eyes had burned in his sweaty face, and one look told Dean that he had felt it, too. This realisation, this silent understanding had sent gooseflesh rippling down his spine.

Later, Jerry had been almost manic; Dean hadn’t even tried to send him away, just bedded down for the night with a squirming mess. Alan King was long gone by then, so they’d had the room to themselves – no one to see Dean’s struggle to take off the kid’s shoes and socks, to free him from his sweat-drenched shirt.

“Dean, Dean.” Playing with his hair.

“Yes?” Slow, easy, like nothing untoward was happening.

“Here.” Taking his hand, putting it squarely on his heaving chest. Hair matted with sweat, gold medallion cool to the touch.

His heart had been beating so fast it might have been vibrating.

“ _Christ_ , Jer. You gotta slow down.”

Slender fingers down his jawline.

“Jerry.”

“Mm?” Tugging gently at his earlobe.

“You did good tonight, kid.”

His eyes had lit up like bonfires.

“I got an idea,” the kid had said, once Dean had climbed in beside him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Slipping arms around his waist.

“Oh. That kind of idea.”

“Huh?” Looking up at him through long lashes. Then dissolving into mad giggles against his shoulder. “ _Dean_. No. I didn’t mean that.”

“I know, kid, don’t worry about it. What’s the idea?”

“Mm.” The kid had fallen silent for a minute or so, before saying, “It’s a big idea. A good idea, I think. I want you should do something with me, but… but it’s okay if you say no.”

Dean had shifted uncomfortably.

“You gonna tell me, or do I hafta guess?”

Jerry had sighed. “Never mind. It’s all mixed up anyhow. I’ll figure it out and tell you tomorrow.”

But the next day had come and gone, and the kid had kept it to himself. The only new thing was how Dean had casually slammed his hip into the kid’s phonograph in the middle of his act; the kid had leapt about a foot in the air, scrambled to catch up. Dean had watched the immediate recognition of what had happened sparkle in the kid’s eyes, and thumped the phonograph once or twice more for good measure. Watching. Watching. Watching how he gurned and twitched and flailed his limbs. How he puffed out his cheeks. And then, at the end, how he relaxed, his face shiny but serene.

“I gotta learn all these new skips, boy.”

Silent, words dried up, all forgotten in the minute he had spent studying the kid’s profile, Dean had crossed the floor of the dressing room and wrapped his arms around his friend.

“Dean, what—?”

He had shaken his head, and the kid had gone quiet.

_Christ, Jer. What have you started here?_

Time had passed; they had continued to mess into each other’s acts; and then, one night after the patrons had filed out and while busboys bussed tables, Jerry had found Dean nursing a scotch at the bar and led him on to the floor.

“My idea,” he had said, as though no time had elapsed between their falling asleep in each other’s arms and the kid’s dragging him away from his drink.

“Hit me.”

“No. The other way.”

“What?” It had been too early for this. A sleep, some coffee, and then Dean could understand.

“You hit me.”

“ _Christ_ , Jerry.”

“Or grab me. Shove me. Whatever you want.”

“Your idea…” He had shaken his head. “Your idea is you wanna get hurt?”

“Onstage, sure. Listen. I messed into your act, and you messed into mine. We broke up the joint! We were better than anything else they got here or in any other nightclub.”

Dean had chuckled. “Right, if you say so.” Knowing the kid was right, knowing the shitck he'd done with Alan King wasn't a patch on what he'd been doing with Jerry. 

“Don’t do that.” Jerry’s eyes had gone hard. “I’m serious, Dean. Just listen to me.”

Dean had listened.

“I’m the monkey, right? Or the kid. Or the Idiot. And you’re the organ grinder, the big brother, the smart one. So I act nutty and you get mad. And you can yell at me, or maybe give me a look, you know? And then the audience is with you, because I’m annoying, right? But I think…” He chewed his bottom lip. “I think we oughta be more physical, right?”

“Physical?” Dean had thought about all the times the kid had grabbed him, hugged him, hopped into his lap. Dean would always keep his hands away, or maybe lightly rest them, touch the kid, just to let him know it was all right. But never grab, never jump on his neck the way Jerry loved to do to him. “That’s not physical, Jer, that’s…” He had shaken his head with a sigh. “That’s violent. You wanna get _violent_?”

“But it’s not violent, Dean. For the audience, sure. But not for us.”

Dean had looked away. Chairs had been stacked upside down on tables; the bar was empty; and a man with a broom and a twisted back had begun to make his slow way around the floor. Dean had watched him for a while, thinking. Thinking about the horror in the kid’s eyes when Dean would show up one morning with a fresh cut or bruise. Thinking about launching himself across the room at a guy who looked wrong at the kid. Thinking about how he could make a circle with one hand around the kid’s upper arm.

“Jer.” He had looked back into the kid’s expectant face. “I, uh… You don’t wanna do that.”

“Yes I do.”

“All right.” An uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat. “ _I_ don’t wanna do that.”

A flinch, a quick rearranging of his expression. “Oh. You don’t… you don’t want we should play together anymore?”

“I don’t…” _I don’t wanna hurt you._ Dean had shuffled his feet. _Just that. Just say that. Wouldn’t that be easier than this?_ But nothing more had come.

“Dean, it’s okay.” Jerry had come very close to him then. “I like workin’ with you. I think we’re really great together. I just wanna make the act funnier.”

“The _act_?”

Jerry had flushed. “It’s – well, there was.” A cough, a bashful little grin. “There was a guy from the newspaper here. Did you see him? Well, I had a drink with him, and he told me he’d seen us. He started talking like we were an act. I didn’t correct him, maybe I should have, I’m sorry. There were a couple things he said…” Jerry had trailed off, shrugged. “Look, I just think he’s right. Okay? We could be an act. You know?”

“Jerry—”

“We didn’t even practice! I didn’t even ask you to do anything. But you did. You did everything so perfect, Dean.”

Despite everything, Dean felt a thrill of pride at the kid’s words.

“Aw, nothin’ doin’,” he said. “I just followed your lead, Jer.”

“Then follow my lead, now.” He took hold of Dean’s arm. “If you’re the older brother, you’ll get mad, right? Get exasperated at this kid brother of yours who can’t keep his mouth shut. You’re not gonna hurt me. Just get a little mad, maybe. And build up to getting physical about it. I do too many things wrong and you just grab me.”

“ _Grab_ you?”

“Sure, bubbe. Be rough.”

“Jer, stop.”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“Jerry—”

“You’re not gonna hurt me.”

Dean’s eyes shifted, darted. “I don’t know.”

“I do. Okay? Just listen.”

Dean listened. He found it was perfectly natural to follow the kid’s instruction. Easy, even. Like they’d been doing it for years.

“Put your hand here.”

“Like this?”

“Almost – here. Yeah, the other way.”

Dean gripped Jerry’s lapel, fingers curled inside the jacket. He made few tentative tugs, as though testing the material. He shook his head a little.

“Trust me, Dean,” the kid said. His fingers tapped at his wrist.

Dean trusted him.

He yanked; the kid staggered forward.

“Shit.” Dean caught him, held him firm. “All right?”

But Jerry was grinning. “See? Looks real, right?”

“You—”

“I jumped a little, maybe. But to the audience, you’re really yankin’. For us, it’s gotta be fifty-fifty, or it won’t come off.”

“You’re really all right?”

“Sure. The suit might be a little sore, but I’m fine. You want we should do it again?”

Dean nodded.

So they did it again. And again. And again. Until Dean stopped hesitating and Jerry stopped instructing. Then Jerry got Dean to stand in the middle of the floor and sing – “Real nice like always.” – while he came up behind and pantomimed or grimaced or made rude gestures. Dean would twist round, or do long slow takes; and Jerry would immediately rearrange his face into sweetness and light, or wait until the last possible second before snapping into cross-eyed innocence. Dean’s heart was thudding, the hair on his arms and legs standing to attention. He found with a strange, pleasant sort of panic that he didn’t have to wait for the kid’s instructions anymore; he knew them already, could feel them building, and even from this distance felt like he could hear, could sense each breath, each heartbeat from the skinny body behind him.

Jerry, meanwhile, could feel fireworks whizzing and banging deep in his stomach. Whenever Dean executed something perfectly – which, Jerry had come to realise, was almost every single time – he felt like he would burst with joy, with pride, with love for this marvellous man. He wanted to grab him and kiss him every time he turned around, but held firm, kept working. Then he’d push, get close and do his kid brother bit. Dean would grab him, push him, rough him up a little. He could see his friend’s eyes burning and thought he’d never be happier. He was so utterly intoxicated that he didn’t notice Dean’s hand was fractionally higher up his arm than it should be.

“ _Ehi_!” Dean seized him, shoved him. Jerry stumbled. He blinked.

“Now you’re overacting a little.” His normal voice, eyes serious, almost teacherly.

“Shit, Jerry, did I—”

“No’m all right.” He shrugged Dean off with a small smile. “But that’s when you pull back. When it’s not fifty-fifty. Even if you go fifty-one, it won’t work.” He rubbed his shoulder. “All right, let’s—”

“Jerry.”

“I’m fine, Dean. Now, we – oh.”

Dean was touching him. He stroked and gently rubbed the place that dimly throbbed. Jerry gasped beneath his fingers, watched as Dean slipped his other hand under Jerry’s armpit, lifted, helped him rotate, stretch, relax again. Jerry flinched and felt like he might cry.

“Sorry, kid.” His voice barely a whisper.

Mouth dry and heart thudding in his ears, Jerry tentatively touched his cheek. “I’m okay, bubbe.” He smiled. “Means I get a free shot, though.”

Dean chuckled. “Fair’s fair, kid. Go ’head.”

Jerry nodded. He took his hand away and brought it back with a soft _smack_ against Dean’s face.

“Careful,” Dean said softly. “I can’t afford to replace any more of this.”

Jerry laughed. “Keep it nice, Dean, it’s a beautiful thing.”

“You know better than to get fresh before I’ve had coffee, Jer.”

He beamed and clutched his face. Then, serious again, and with an idea that he should rather like to make Dean laugh now, to see the joy come back into that beautiful face, he said, “I really am all right, Dean. But I got practice not bein’ hurt. Watch.”

He took a few steps back and began to do a cute little Charleston. Then, before Dean could stop him, he jumped, tucked one arm against his chest, and for one terrible moment seemed to hang horizontal in the air. He slammed down to the floor, and Dean was on him like a shot.

“ _Christ_ , Jer, what was that?”

“A pratfall.” He got back to his feet. Dean’s hands were on him, checking his ribs, his arm. Jerry marvelled at how those hands had hurt him – just a little – and now were sweetly searching for another bruise, something else to soothe. He thought he might explode: part of it the stupid frustration at himself for thinking Dean would find it funny; and part of it his brain's incoherent cries of _His hands he's touching me with his hands on my waist he's touching with the fingers stroking_. His mouth managed to make more sense: “I’m fine, see?”

“How… but when did you…?” Dean shook his head, still running a hand up and down his arm.

“Practice.” He smiled. “I did it once without thinking. Musta been thirteen or so. Really broke up the joint. As I’m sure you know, Catskills tourists are very discerning critics.”

“So you’ve told me.” He stroked Jerry’s side, a look of frightened wonder on his face.

“A-anyhow.” Jerry coughed. “I started practicin’. On my bed, or on a mattress on the floor. Anywhere soft. Then grass, ya know. I worked up.”

“You never hurt yourself?”

“Oh, sure, all the time. But never badly!” he added quickly, seeing the shift in Dean’s expression. “I never broke anything, Dean, honest. Just some bruises. I don’t even notice until the next morning. Adrenaline, ya know?” He shrugged. “I get an ache or a pain, and then the next show comes along, and I forget all about it.” 

Dean was frowning, still touching, still stroking, like he’d forgotten. Jerry tried to smile, thinking, _You’d better remember soon, boy, or I’ll be in trouble here._

Dean took back his hand. He held his wrist in front of him and stood with his gaze fixed on the floor. Then he sighed, “ _Jerry_ ,” and shook his head. It was too hard, too much to tell him. The kid’s face was open, eager, but there was something else there, like he expected Dean to yell at him. He hated it, hated he’d made the kid feel that way.

So he said, “It’s impressive. You get a lotta height. Looks real good.” He meant it, he thought. It was a good trick, and clearly the kid took pride in it. But his mind kept repeating the thud as Jerry hit the floor and it made him feel a little sick.

“Yeah?” Jerry was sparkling, fizzing. “But you know” – and Dean was struck as always by how well the kid could read him – “I don’t always gotta do it like that, Dean. Why don’t you catch me?” And they were standing so close that the kid could fling an arm across Dean’s shoulders and jump sideways. He got good height, and Dean’s arms came out, one around his back, the other under his knees; the kid sat pretty against his chest, brought up his other arm to hug. “See?” He dropped free. “And like this.”

Jerry took off his jacket and tie, left them in a neat pile on the raised part of the stage where the orchestra sat. Dean followed suit, tucking his own tie into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Then Jerry took a few turns running and jumping into Dean’s arms. He’d done it before, but there was more purpose now. Dean caught him neatly again and again, no matter the angle, no matter the speed; he could come sprinting from one corner of the floor, or go dancing around Dean’s back, but whenever he was within rage, Dean’s arms came out reflexively to grab and hold his friend. Jerry even tried coming head-on, and ended up sitting against Dean’s pelvis with his fingers locked behind his neck. Dean chuckled, giggled, laughed, tears spurting from his eyes, and he spotted the colour high in Jerry’s cheeks, and was able to convince himself it was only because he was running around so much.

Then Jerry was mounting the piano stool, came down clanging on the keys and stood tap-dancing on the lid, before casually extending a leg, as if to descend an invisible flight of stairs. He didn’t look, knew he wouldn’t need to, just stepped out secure in the fact that Dean would be there, Dean was watching, Dean would know where to put his hands. And he was caught, held, and he beamed into his friend’s face, stared right at it despite how bright and warm it was. Not staring directly at the sun is a lesson you learn early on, but it must have never stuck, because here he was, seriously at risk of getting blinded, burned.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _Oh!_

“So here you are!”

Dean’s head snapped around; he let Jerry slip from his arms; and both men saw Angel Lopez making his casual way over, weaving between tables. His coat was slung over one arm, a hand in his pocket. He patted the janitor’s shoulder on the way past and stepped on to the floor. He offered that tight little smile and raised his eyebrows.

“Oh!” Jerry slapped a hand to his forehead. “I forgot.” He grinned sheepishly and chewed his fingernail. “Sorry.”

“Forgot?” Dean looked from Jerry to Lopez and back again. _Their ties match_ , he thought, but couldn’t think why that should jump out at him.

Lopez said, “We had plans for a late dinner, but I see he was a little distracted.”

 _Dinner?_ Dean put his hands in his pockets. Words were gone from him again; he’d used up most of them working this whole thing out with the kid. So he stood quietly and waited. Watched.

“Join me for lunch today?” Lopez offered.

“Oh, sure!” Jerry beamed. “Lemme finish up here and I'll meet you later.”

“Yes, yes, you boys take your time.” He smiled. “I love what you’re doing.” Then he turned, made his casual way back to the stairs.

Jerry turned to Dean, flushing. “Ya hear that, Deanie?” He grabbed his arm. “He _loves_ it.”

“Oh, sure,” Dean said.

He ambled over to his jacket, pulled it on in silence. He sensed the kid close on his heels, felt heat and excitement sparking off him. _Matching ties_ , he thought, as he watched Jerry knot his own.

Jerry was talking, babbling almost, saying, “He’s been real nice to me.”

“Oh, sure,” Dean said again.

“You all right, bubbe?” Jerry touched his wrist.

“Fine,” he said, and though he hated the look in the kid’s eye, hated how easily he could make the kid look that way, he went on: “I thought you were _my_ pal is all.”

Jerry flushed scarlet. “Oh! Oh, Dean, I-I am. I mean, you’re my – we’re – I mean, we – _oy_.” Then he spotted the grin spreading on Dean’s face. “Oh, ha ha, very funny.”

“Aw, c’mon, I’m only kiddin’ around, Jer. You’re allowed other friends.”

He did a strange thing then. Dean thought the kid was going to hold his hand, but instead he hesitantly slotted his fingers through Dean’s. Just their fingers touched; their palms faced opposite ways. Dean looked at the kid, whose head was bowed, turned away slightly. He tilted his own and rubbed softly with his thumb against the kid’s knuckles.

“All right, kid?”

“Mm.” Jerry nodded. “Just thinkin’.”

“Ah. Dangerous.”

Jerry giggled.

“Whadaya thinkin’ about?”

He looked Dean full in the face. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. And me. Us, I guess.”

 _Us?_ Dean smiled gently at him. “Fifty-fifty, right?”

“Mm.” Jerry’s hands came up to fuss at Dean’s lapels. “Kept you up all night. What a mess you look.” He reached inside Dean’s jacket and pulled out his tie. Dean let the kid button his shirt and slip the tie under the rumpled collar. Jerry hummed as he worked, tying a loose knot at Dean’s throat. Then his hands stuttered, came to rest on Dean’s broad chest.

_Oh._

“Kid.”

“Mm?”

“You’re my pal.” He tweaked his nose. “Okay?”

Jerry smiled and put his arms around Dean’s neck. Dean meant to hug him back, but something gave him pause. Instead, he rested hesitant hands on the kid’s waist and said, “You’re shaking.”

“Am I?” He chuckled softly. “Guess you better hold me tighter then.”

He held him tighter.

As Jerry pressed against his friend, he heard a rustle in his top pocket and remembered the notes he’d scrawled the day before. This powder keg of an idea had been bouncing around in his head for months, years, just in the background, waiting. Something told him the fuse might have been lit the second Dean’s hand touched his on the corner of 54th and Broadway. It was a long fuse, though, with twists and turns and tricky knots he’d had to quickly, carefully undo. Dean had helped, he thought, but he did it without realising. After the first time he and Dean and Sonny had been out all night, Jerry had lain in his bed, running his pantomime act over and over. _Slapstick_ , he’d thought. That was what he was doing. Some slapstick and some mime and some queer stuff here and there, but he hadn’t been able to think about _that_ then. _Slapstick._ He’d rubbed his face and wondered how long he could keep on doing it. He was good, he thought – did that make him conceited? Whatever, he _knew_ he was good. He’d wondered, with a vague sort of resigned misery, that he’d be doing pantomime forever.

Then Dean’s face had drifted through the darkness. He’d started thinking about Dean, once in a while. In bed. Only when he couldn’t sleep. Nothing weird, he thought; just sometimes it was nice to think about him. And as Dean’s handsome face had floated before him, he turned that word over in his mind. _Handsome_ , he’d thought. _Oh, sure. He’s handsome._ And then, smiling secretly: _Gorgeous, maybe, if all those girls who look at him are any measure. Beautiful? Sure. Yes. Dean’s beautiful sometimes, when he smiles at me or teases me a little._

And then, unbidden, another adjective had crossed his mind: _Sexy._

He’d had to bury his burning face in the pillow until his heart had decided it wasn’t going to explode.

When his lungs had ceased heaving, and he could no longer hear his blood pumping in his head, he had put those sibilant descriptors together. _Sexy_ , he’d thought, heart thudding again, just once. _Slapstick._

He’d had something, then, but not enough, and had fallen into a restless sleep.

Weeks later, maybe, when he’d met with Dean and worked himself up into a simian frenzy, those words had come back to him. He’d looked at himself, at Dean, had given each of them a role in his nascent theory. He’d almost laughed, then, to add another layer. _A monkey_ , he’d thought, _and an organ grinder._ As that new idea had crossed his mind, Dean had come to him, held his hand and led him from the room, Jerry still hunched, hooting, gurning like an ape. It was as if Dean had heard the thought and made it real. Impossible, he knew, but also, with his hand swallowed up in Dean's paw, it seemed like the truth.

It had taken him a while, after that, to realise that Dean would have to hurt him. Get mad, push and shove and maybe hit, if this would ever work. Dean wasn’t like that. Dean got mad, sometimes, and he pushed and shoved and hit – sometimes. But never Jerry. Sometimes Jerry thought he deserved it, but Dean never touched him. Not like that, anyhow. Touched him nicely, kindly, gently with those bruiser’s hands. Sometimes late at night Jerry thought about those hands and had to bury his face in the pillow again.

And when he’d run out onstage and started kibitzing, clowning, working his ass off to get Dean to smile, hadn’t a part of him trembled slightly at the notion that Dean might get mad? Trembled, somehow, not in fear or ominous certainty; but in excitement, in a nervous sort of hope that he would see something different in his friend, something that might go a little way to building on this idea he’d had. Instead, something even better: Dean was good. Dean was fucking _funny_. And Jerry had known this already – he’d paid so much attention to this man it would be a miracle if Dean could have thrown something new at him – but it had been so much better, so much _more_ than he ever could have dreamed.

That night, when Dean had let Jerry hold him, he’d thought about how gentle his friend was, how kind. And he realised that it didn’t matter in the end if Dean wouldn’t hurt him, although that fatalistic part of him had whispered that he might, Joey, he might hurt you, if you’ll let him, if you string along with him. But Dean didn’t need to hurt him onstage. _Just make it look good_ , he’d thought, drifting into sleep. _Make them believe it._

When he’d told Dean to be rough, to grab him, and Dean had almost refused – confusion and fear and horror and hundreds more mixed up in his friend’s eyes – Jerry could have cried for the joy of it. _You gotta do it, Dean, for this to work, but God I love that you don’t want to._

“Jer?” Dean whispered in his young friend’s ear. “Jerry, are you cold?”

“No’m fine.” He nestled into Dean’s neck. “Maybe a little shaky after this.”

“Was it too much?”

Jerry sighed, and Dean felt a shudder; he couldn’t tell if it was in Jerry’s body or his own.

“No, I’m… I don’t know. I’m excited, I guess.” His breathy confession sent tingles down Dean’s collar. “You’re so good, you know that?” Whispering now, right in his ear. “You’re so good – so quick, so smart.” He paused. “I think maybe you’re the smartest guy I ever met.”

Dean gently pushed the kid away. “You oughta get out more.” He didn’t want the kid to think he was mad, so he began to massage the shoulder he’d hurt. Jerry gasped softly, and uttered a small grunt.

“I mean it,” Jerry continued, trying not to let on that Dean's fingers made it pretty hard to string a decent sentence together. “You know how many people get an act down that quick? How many adlib so fast, no beats for effect, just lightning-quick like that? Not many, Dean.” He puffed up his chest. “My dad worked with the best, and none of them could touch you.” His confidence faltered, and he smiled sheepishly. “I mean it sincerely.”

Dean’s head filled with something like radio static. He made a noise in the back of his throat and stepped back, rooting in his pockets, suddenly desperate for an excuse not to talk anymore. He found a crumpled pack of Luckies and stuck one between his teeth.

The kid was already holding out a lighter. “I’m tryna be nice, Dean,” he said, while Dean puffed. Jerry seemed smaller now, shrunken, and Dean’s heart felt like it was in a vice.

“Yeah. I know.” He went to him, took his arm. “C’mon.”

They walked together past the garish bar, between the tables to the stairs, Jerry silent for once, while Dean ran words through his mind, searching, spotting ones that sounded kind, that sounded _right_ , making grabs for them; they slipped through his grip like so many bars of soap, like strings of kites that scorched his palms; and he wondered why he kept trying to catch them, wondered why he could so easily let them slip and float away with anyone else, but with the kid by his side he kept reaching out, kept trying. Kept trying.

And then, the string of a kite like that floral tie around the kid’s neck, secure in his fist.

“Was it a birthday gift?” Hoping the kid wouldn’t remember Dean didn’t buy him anything.

“What?”

“The tie, Jer.”

Jerry looked at him. “Oh, this. Well, I—”

Dean was touching it, straightening it, quiet, a thoughtful expression knitting his brows. They stood in the doorway, the darkened club behind, the sunlit street beyond. Here, it was quiet; they were caught between, one touching the other. They listened for a moment to each other's breaths.

“I – yeah. Yes. He bought me one like his, because I said I liked it.”

“Hm.” Dean dropped it. “Nice gift,” he said. “Nice to have a friend like that.”

Jerry shrugged. “We’re not really friends.”

“No?” Dean frowned, took a drag on his cigarette.

“We’re lovers.”

Dean choked, spluttered, spitting smoke and tobacco. Jerry cackled with glee and went careering around his friend, slapping his back with gusto.

“Ooh, _boy_!” he cried. “That was a _sterling_ one, wasn’t it, Deanie!” He thumped him hard.

Dean looked closely at him and raised an eyebrow. “You’re overacting now, Jer.”

Jerry stopped, but the delirious, wonderful smile stayed firmly in place. “Look at this, boy,” he said. “Already got us a cute little safeword.” He giggled, leaving Dean rather bemused. Then Jerry was stroking the spot between Dean’s shoulder blades. “I’m sorry, Dean. I got excited.”

“’Sall right.” He smiled at him, and the kid beamed, taking back his hand to hold Dean’s wrist.

“No, but serially, Dean. We’re not really all that friendly. He’s a pal, I guess. But you’re my friend. Is that okay?”

“Surely,” Dean said. “But what’s the difference?”

Jerry shrugged. “I like you better.” And as if to prove it, he kissed Dean's cheek. Then, still holding firm to his wrist, Jerry stepped out on to the street. Dean didn't move, felt like his shoes were nailed down. Jerry watched him. "Coming? You can buy me a malted." Batting his eyelashes.

Dean laughed and said, "You're a cheap date, kid," and walked into the sunlight.


End file.
